Don't Catch Me
by ItsWhishawTime
Summary: In a bewildered panic, Rufus Sixsmith travels to Berges in order to confront his dear friend and acclaimed lover, Robert Frobisher. Soon spotting him lurking about on the tower, he begins to notice a change in his behaviour. Making his love for him well and truly known isn't enough and only seems to push Frobisher further and further to the edge… Quiet literally…


Frobisher perched himself at the top of the tower of Burges, where he could watch the sun in all it's glory as it rose. This would be his last sun rise. Nothing but the sound of the whistling wind to accompany him. He was gathering up his last thoughts before making his final decisions. All was well and uninterrupted, until a different sound broke the peace and silence - The sound of echoing footsteps coming from the tower's staircase.

_"A tourist? ...No, it can't be."_ He thought to himself as he took a sharp drag of his cigarette. "It's far too early and cold for tourists..." He reassured himself, until a person had shortly cleared through the morning's fog.

It turned out to be a gentleman, and he was certainly no stranger to Frobisher. It was Rufus Sixsmith, in all his splendor; Well dressed and handsome, although Frobisher never really favoured his hat which he wore so well, despite how ridiculous it looked. Robert had ducked and dropped his cigarette in an awkward attempt to hide himself, but it was too late. Sixsmith had already seen him. A rush of both excitement and guilt ran through his body and forced him to his feet as their glances connected after so long.

"Robert. Its been far too long." Sixsmith greeted him somewhat nervously, though a smile beamed from his face.

"Sixsmith. Leave me be." Frobisher replied sharply, not an ounce of emotion in his voice or expression.

"...What is it, Robert?"

Frobisher shook his head stiffly as he looked out to the splendid morning views of Bruges again. It all seemed so beautiful and surreal. Even Frobisher couldn't begin to imagine life any sweeter than it already was. Though something was burdening him - Something that would change his future decisions and the way that he felt about everything.

"It appears I've gotten myself into a spot of trouble... And it isn't something I can easily fix. Please, just leave, Rufus. You'll be doing yourself a bloody favour." Robert replied with a harsh tone as he balanced across the walk-way, not baring to look Rufus in the eyes.

"Please, Robert, wait." Rufus said as he made his way to the other side of the tower, following Robert in his footsteps. "…Is it something to do with your work?" He called out for a brief moment, over the sound of the wind that had become annoyingly loud.

"Perhaps. Perhaps not." He smirked, looking back at him for a few short seconds, which to Rufus, seemed like a life-time. He knew how Sixsmith hated short replies that hardly qualified as answers. He would always enjoy winding him up. It'd always been that way as Sixsmith was always so gullible.

"This isn't the time to play games, Robert."

"Oh. Its a game, now, is it? Hadn't realized. Sorry." Robert smirked as he resting his palms against the opposing balcony and looking over the height of the tower, gulping at how painful the fall would be, and in-turn, how deadly it would be. "…I don't think there's anything you can do for me now, Sixsmith. As far as I'm concerned, I'm already gone." He put it to Rufus as plainly as possible. He couldn't have said it in any other way.

Sixsmith frowned as he finally reached the other side of the tower, hoping to finally confront the clearly confused composer and his suicidal thoughts. He slid his hand gently over his and their fingers soon began to lace together like they used to. It reminded him of the times where they would travel to the beach. Rufus would always pull cheesy one liners which made Robert laugh, and he would always exchange the embarrassment by pulling cheap pick-up moves. Oh, how those times had changed.

"Don't do it." He breathed out desperately. "I know what you're thinking, and I know you have th-that silly gun with you and I'm here, putting a firm foot down and telling you that the infamous Robert Frobisher is not going to end his own life, nor is he going to give up on what he does so effortlessly and brilliantly. You're always telling me to grow a flipping back-bone, and now you've given me a reason to do so." Rufus stood tall and proud and wore a smile that showed exactly what he was feeling.

Frobisher chuckled to himself, shook and turned his head up to him, his eyes glistening with tears and a subtle smile across his ever-cocky face.

"…Nice speech, old chum. Nice speech… You always did have a way with words." He leaned back into an up-right position and moved his body away from the balcony. He forced his hand away from his, breaking their intimate touch, frowning and sighing as he did so as though it was incredibly painful to witness as well as to do. While Frobisher push passed him in an attempt to get away from him, Sixsmith noticed that he had forcefully pushed something into his jacket's pocket. Frobisher smiled and didn't say a word, nor tell him what the object was, though Rufus was too wrapped up in consoling his friend to bother to investigate it.

"Enough, I don't want to hear any more of these sarcastic comments! I want you to stop acting in this way." Sixsmith snapped as he held Frobisher's head in his palms, the wind blowing his messy locks about like they were open flames caught in a breeze. "I can't do any more than I'm already doing for you. What will it take for you to snap out of this? Another speech? A poem? _A bloody rebellion?! What?!_" Sixsmith's eyes widened. _"…A kiss…?"_ He whispered out gently. An endless gaze occurred. He capture Robert's lips delicately, a battle of helpless, struggling emotions slowly emerging between them, trapped with nowhere to escape.

"…I love you, Sixsmith. Always have, always will. And that's all you need to know." Frobisher cooed to him before walking away to the opposite balcony, no more than a few steps away. He started to climb over the railings which alarmed Sixsmith immediately.

"That's enough now, Robert, come back." Rufus requested, calm and collected as he thought his friend was merely playing a practical joke of some kind, though reality soon set in and he then realized what he was doing. "Come on, now... Please, Robert..." Rufus was nearly in tears. His words couldn't seem to console him nor stop him from balancing across the edge of the tower. "…I love you, for heaven's sake... _Is that what you wanted to hear?! …I love you!_" He cried out as loud as he could, holding his hand out in a dizzy, desperate attempt to save him or change his mind at the last minute.

Frobisher looked to Sixsmith and smiled for the last time in his life.

"...I've always admired your determination, Sixsmith. You old dog..." He said as a single tear rolled from his eye, showing perhaps the biggest, proudest smile Rufus had ever seen from him. He shook his head. _"...Don't catch me..."_

He tumbled from the tower. Gone in a flash, leaving behind a bewildered Sixsmith in complete ruins. He felt a moment where couldn't bear to look over the balcony, at what Frobisher had so sudden done to himself, but worry and love got it in his way and he rushed to glanced over, roaring out his name in panic. He stared at Frobisher's body. He didn't move. The fall had cruelly pulled him into an early death. Sixsmith continued to stare, simply unable to move from the shear shock that had passed over him. He didn't want to admit to himself that Frobisher was gone. No, he couldn't. Those words were stuck in his mind like a broken vinyl and yet they wouldn't dare breath passed his quivering lips. Sobbing like an ill child, Sixsmith grabbed his hat and threw it into the sky out of anger and pain, letting the wind slowly take it away...

Frobisher's body was taken away later on that day. Sixsmith returned to the shabby hotel room in which Robert he had been staying in after his unfortunate ordeal with Vyvyan Arys. Rufus could not at all understand why Frobisher felt the need to do what he did. He could always read him like a book, and just before his death, he gave him a look that he had never seen before. A look that told him, somehow, that his work in this mad and twisted world was done. He searched the room before anyone else could, and discovered all but a few items: The gun in which he stated in his letters to have taken from V.A, dozens of music sheets and paper for letters and the most important item of them all, Frobisher's poetic masterpiece of notes that he was devising so peacefully and proudly; The Cloud Atlas Sextet was unfortunately left unfinished.

Eventually, Rufus took the potential evidence, and a few days on, he had a local pianist play out Frobisher's Sextet. It was beautiful, Sixsmith thought. He could never understand musical notes or instruments. The damned piano was one of his childhood enemies; The endless amount of failed lessons would only result in a bollocking from his frighteningly strict teacher. If only Robert had added the last few bars to his piece. Rufus couldn't help but feel responsible for this. It had burdened him greatly. He kept the piece close to his heart...

Frobisher was to be buried in his birth-place, not at all his death-place. At the funeral, Sixsmith payed his many loves and respects to his dearest friend and lover, but he couldn't seem to walk away from the burial. He was left alone with the freshly dug grave while the dull day flew in over him, grey clouds suddenly smothering him with cool rain. He dove into his pocket for a handkerchief. He frowned. His finger-tips met with something unusual. He pulled out a crumpled up piece of... Music -sheet? That's when he recalled Frobisher stuffing something into his jacket's pocket on that morning. He felt careless. _"How could I he have forgotten?"_ He whispered to himself.

Despite the rain, he opened it up from it's crumpled state and there they were: The final notes to Frobisher's beloved Sextet. As he had so crudely written at the top of the paper, they happened to be practice notes that he was deciding on before continuing the piece. Three rows of tiny, individual notes, two of them childishly scribbled out to signal that the one left over was to be the final bar for the piece. Sixsmith smiled wildly as he felt the rain beginning to slow down, the ray of the sun breaking through the clouds. He kissed the new notes to bless them. His old friend was still alive in The Cloud Atlas Sextet that he now knew could be completed. He would make sure that Robert Frobisher's name was heard around the world, and furthermore, the Sextet would be the most successful piece of music anyone had ever listen to… And that it was...


End file.
